


Heat of the Day

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Comeplay, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Hot Weather, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hot weather is playing havoc with Dean, and Sam squirming in the seat next to him isn't helping. At least not until he finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt found [here](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/67380.html?thread=21660468#t21660468)

Outside the sun beats down with relentless heat, and Dean can barely bear it. The windows even open as they are, are making hardly any difference at all, the faintest bit of a breeze sweeping past, more tantalising than satisfying. He can feel a bead of sweat slide down his forehead, wipes it away with an impatient hand. Hot yellow fields, parched from lack of water, too unhealthily vibrant against the searing blue sky roll past, like they're travelling through an endless corn sea. Beside him Sam shifts on his chair, looking like the heat is hitting him even worse. If it's like this at ten in the morning when they've been travelling for like twenty minutes, noon is going to be fucking horrific. He can taste salt on his tongue, and his lips feel dry. The beer bottles in the cooler feel like they're taunting him, and he’s already drunk two bottles of water.  
  
  
Sam's opted for the only half satisfying solution of stripping off, lounging there in his boxers, one knee propped up as he tries to read some battered paperback that he nicked from the exchange a bookshelf in last night's motel. He's shifting though, sliding against slick leather and it's driving Dean mad. The heat of the day is getting under his skin, like a slowly increasing madness, itching there. He can barely focus on the road ahead, every sound seems magnified, the deep breaths Sam's taking in, the rustle of the pages, and beneath it all the low hum of the car like some deep intrinsic heartbeat. He distracts himself from the tedium and remembers the morning, a smile tugging at his lips.  
  
  
From the moment they'd woken up, the air had been heavy and molten, as though a flickering electric storm could be awoken if they snapped their fingers too hard, the day looming over them, pressing down with clammy hands. Dean had woken first, later than usual, pulled on a pair of pants and got some ice to cool down with. When he'd wandered back to the room, Sam had been lying there, asleep still, covers thrown off like he couldn't bear their touch a moment longer, splayed across the bed like some unconscious work of art face down in the pillow. Dean had stood there for longer than he'd intended, drinking in the sight, dick filling unconsciously as he'd watched Sam sleep. He didn't touch, that wasn't what they did, even when Sam curled one leg up a little, and yawned, unknowing temptation written in every line, from the curve of his ass, to the unbroken stretch of his back.  
  
  
Dean didn't touch, not while Sam was asleep, skirting boundaries almost unconsciously, like he knew that it wouldn't be welcome. Sam awake, was willing and eager, took what he was given, and gave back all Dean wanted with a ravenous hunger that woke unwelcome echoes in Dean, sharp tingles of awareness that skated across his skin. Sam, asleep was unknown, unquantified, an unsolved mystery, closed off and remote, his face smooth and blank, his body relaxed and yielding, not the Sam that Dean knew, but some silent other. But watching, watching he could do. Then with walking fingers dipped in ice, he trailed across his neck, and Sam jerked awake with a shudder, tense all the way down until he realised that it was Dean. Then he sunk deeper, turned his head.  
  
  
"Why are you wearing pants?" he asked, his voice deep and husky from too much sleep, and his hand stroked briefly across Dean's knee. The pressure of it does something to Dean, sparked low warmth in his stomach that curled and heated. He's never felt like this before, the slightest touch setting him off like he's ten years younger. But he was already a little wound up, and Sam sat up, brushing hands through his hair, muscles shifting under his skin and Dean was adding every day to his growing list of things he'd never have thought would turn him on. The latent strength in Sam's body, how he pushes back against everything Dean does, and then yields when he wants to, when there's something that strikes him right, still amazes him always.  
  
  
Sam stood, naked as the day he was born and with no self-consciousness walked towards the shower, turned it on, and ducked into the cold spray. Dean could just watch, wanted to touch but there's not enough space to share, and he had to content himself with scrambling out of his pants, palming his hand over his dick, feeling the heavy weight of it under his hands. He was damp with sweat even in the relative coolness of the room, fished out the remaining ice, gargled it back, flopping onto the pillow and staring at the ceiling.  
  
  
When Sam came out of the shower, he was damp and cool against Dean's skin. Knelt next to him, took over stroking Dean's dick, fingers firm and clever as always. Sam was properly awake by then, the shower washed the sleep away, but the sweat's forming already, and his grin was wicked. "Fuck me," he said, and Dean's traitorous dick felt like he could come just from that. He doesn't ever get tired of exactly how Sam can raise his pulse with so few words. Sam's been on a fucking kick recently, can't get enough of it, fingers, dick, even Dean's tongue, as much as he'll give and as often, and when Dean's fingers pushed into his ass he can feel last night still, the slight give, the unusually easy slide and he swallowed a moan against Sam's stomach, two slicked fingers in and pushing, his knuckles pushing against Sam, and Sam, he just held his knees apart as much as he could and took it.  
  
  
When Dean does this, when Sam fucks him, he feels close to breaking, on the edge from it, too raw and too close, like he's being rearranged and made into someone new, under Sam's eyes and tongue and clever fingers. It's good but he can only take so much before he has to close his eyes and bite his hand so he doesn't moan too loud about how it feels. Sam's the opposite, pushes himself forward, holds nothing back, no shame or dismay, just power leashed and taking what it sometimes feels like he needs. He shoved himself up, arms above his head and Dean knew what to do, slid a third finger in, gave Sam a taste of what was coming. He loved doing it, watching Sam shiver apart, hand around his dick, clenched around him, knew Sam liked how it felt, Dean this close to him, not even air between them.  
  
  
When he finally pushed in, it felt hotter than the air around them, and Sam almost growled, pulled him closer, wound himself around until Dean's sunk balls deep in him, and then they were moving together, no desperate urgency, just deep and long over and over. When Dean finally came, he slumped down on Sam, felt the fast patter of his heart between them, and he couldn't bring himself to move for long seconds, felt himself empty into Sam, more than he'd have thought possible after the night before. Sam was still hard between them, and Dean couldn't be having that, pulled out carefully, and ducked down to take Sam in. He was on a hair-trigger as it is, hissed as Dean licked away the beading drops of precome that'd soaked him, and came when Dean thumbed a stray bit of come back inside him, instinctively tightened at the touch, and Dean could feel himself struggling to get hard again, He reckoned if he gives it half an hour it might happen, but they need to be on the road.  
  
  
  
Now they are, and Dean can't stop thinking about the morning, the tightness of Sam around his fingers and his dick, how fucking hot he looked. It's like the heat of the sun has worked its way inside him, because no matter how he tries to divert his thoughts, the image of Sam's hole clenching so desperately around his thumb keeps appearing and he can feel himself reacting to it.  
  
  
When Sam shifts for the third or fourth time within the space of a minute, presses his thighs together and tilts his hips upward a little, Dean _eventually_ gets what's going on. That Sam hadn't bothered with clean-up, was sitting there with Dean's come still inside him, or even dripping slowly out is messing with Dean's head, combines with the itchiness and madness of the heat enough that the next time he sees a decent sized tree enough to give them a bit of shade, he pulls right in on the side of the road, and just looks at Sam. At the damp strength of his body and the easiness of his posture, and the way he looks straight back at Dean, all challenge, push and pull inherent in their natures. Can't take it a second longer, just kisses Sam, pushes into his mouth, no interest in delicacy or technique, just needing to taste Sam as much as he can in this moment, write it in his skin that this belongs to him. Sam lets him for a second, then breaks away, and pushes down his boxers.  
  
  
He wriggles out of them, and he's naked then, and Dean can't catch a breath, can't take it for a second more. Feels like his blood has been swapped out for fire. "Outside," Dean says, steps out of the car and makes short work of his own t-shirt and pants, doesn't give a flying fuck about the small likelihood of someone driving along this road and catching them doing this. He has a shotgun loaded with rocksalt in his car, a heat-triggered temper and a burning itch to scratch. Sam's obedient now, in this one thing ever and that hits like a punch.  
  
  
Outside the car is cooler for a second, and then the sun hits fully and Dean feels like he might sizzle. He's kept hold of one of the little packets of lube, that he's taken to keeping in his pocket, since this thing between them has begun, and they've been condomless since Sam had insisted on tests- always so fucking responsible- and _telling_ each other if they ever slept with someone else (which Dean hadn't in a surprisingly long time.)  
  
  
Sam's sunk down to the ground in the shadow of the tree, kneeling now with not an inch of submission in him despite his posture, and goddammit he's twisted round to give Dean a smirk that says as plainly as any words that he doesn't know what the fuck is taking Dean this long. He widens his legs a little, knees bent and splayed, and he's still wet looking, open and fucked from the morning quickie they'd had, and Dean doesn't think he could articulate any words if the fate of the world rested on it. It hits like some primal punch to his stomach to see Sam open and waiting for him like that, and he sinks down with a groan, rests his head against the lean muscle of Sam's back for a second, reaches forward and slides a thumb into Sam, a preparatory exploration that elicits a deep sigh from Sam. He slides in so soft and easy he can hardly believe it, let's a second thumb join the first, and with minute movements tugs Sam apart, just a little, muscle still strong against him, Sam twitching as though he's trying to resist, to keep himself closed.  
  
  
He almost bites his tongue at the result, at the thin white fluid that appears at Sam's entrance, beads there as though ready to drop, oozing out from around his thumbs. Fights the urge to lean in and taste it, an urge he can't quite believe he's having, but that's hitting some deep part of him that he didn't even know he had, the urge to taste and touch every single inch of Sam whenever he could. He watches in fascination for a moment, until Sam buckles a little, sinks down onto his forearms, and says roughly _"Dean,"_ and he realises he's not the only one who wants this.  
  
  
"Hush Sam," he murmurs, eyes focused and intent on that tiny working hole, pinned by him, twitching around him, and Jesus it's going to feel so fucking amazing around his dick like it always does, all Sam gripping him tight, holding him close. He leans closer, lets his thumbs slide out, blows and watches Sam contract shut. He licks briefly over Sam's hole for a second, tastes salty sweat, soap and himself. His dick gives one hard throb, and when he looks down he's drooling precome already. He just wants to hold Sam apart, thrust home in one smooth slide, but he wants something else even more. "Sammy," he says, and hears his brother's sharp intake of breath, the way he tightens up even more. When he runs a hand reassuringly over Sam's back, he's kinda surprised he has goosepimples, like some cold chill has struck through him at Dean's murmured speech. "Open for me," he says, and it's a request if not a plea, "want to touch."  
  
  
Sam still holds tense, then like his strings have been cut, he sags a little more, and Dean slides two fingers back into him, holds him apart a little bit, less than the first time, and Sam breathes in so deep, it's like he's sucking in the world, and Dean can feel the vice-like quality of his muscles. Now that's he not resisting, not keeping it in him (and it kind of blows Dean's fucking mind that Sam had done so in the first place) it slides out easily, a slow drip of Dean's come, and with presence of mind Dean lets the small amount pool in his hand, a deceptively tiny looking remainder, and he can't take it any more.

  
He's tired of waiting, slicks himself up with the rest of his own come, drizzles on the lube around Sam's hole, gives himself a quick work up and down, and presses the head of his dick to Sam's ass, lets himself move in the wetness until he's sure he won't come the second he presses in. Then with one hand round his dick, and the other steadying himself on Sam's hip, he pushes in slow and steady and inexorable, like he's the tide coming in and there's nothing that Sam can do about it. Not that Sam wants to protest it seems, he's swaying backwards now, eager to swallow Dean down, opening so sweetly and easily around him that it's like some kind of fucking _dream._  
  
  
When he's got past that first dizzying thrust, the first eyes-shut moment of bliss, he snaps his hips forward, fucks Sam, not brutally but as though he means it. Wants Sam to feel this, feel being stretched open around him, the third fuck he's had in twelve hours, take him in and enjoy it, loose and wet like he so seldom is. Sam's gasping for air now, like he can't remember how to breath in properly, and when Dean finally gets his hand around Sam's dick, he's dripping without the benefit of a touch, and that almost sets Dean off like some perverse chain of orgasm. He's fucking as deep as he can, thighs against Sam's, grateful for the solid weight and strength of his brother that's stopping them from shifting forward.  
  
  
He can still hardly believe that this is real, no matter how many times they do this; that this is something that he can have, now and if their lives don't fuck up even more, maybe even forever. Translates that limitless longing to the way he fucks Sam, up close like he can't bear to be out of him for a second and that's the God honest truth. When he looks down properly at the way his own dick is pressing in, filling Sam up until he can't even think, coated with lube that Sam barely needed after last night and this morning, he almost loses his mind. Presses his fingers in deep to Sam's hips, knowing it'll bruise but hardly able to care. Then he lets a finger press in alongside his dick, and Jesus that's tight, and so good he just wants more, presses in as deep as he can alongside it. Sam goes rigid under him, balanced on one arm, other hand around his own dick, and it takes Dean a second to realise that Sam is coming from that, from Dean opening him up even wider and that's something he can hardly handle the hotness of.  
  
  
Sam's even tighter around him now, riding out the wave in silence, and Dean feels a surge of almost unbearable, frightening love wash through him, as he finishes himself, slumps down on him and lies there for as long as he can take it. Then he pulls out as gently as he can- Sam's a trooper but he's going to be sore after that fucking, and falls beside him, skin almost too hot to touch but he does it anyway. They stare up at the burning sky and the faded green of the leaves above their heads, a shifting network pattern kaleidoscoping around them, and Dean breathes in the stifling air deep.  
  
  
He's slack and exhausted now, but something urges him up, and he gently nudges Sam's legs apart again. Doesn't slide his fingers in to feel his come, he thinks Sam's going to be too sore for fucking for quite some time, but bows his head for a moment, slides his tongue in just for a second, as soft as he can, and feels Sam shudder around him, soothes him and retreats. Leans his head against Sam's bent knee and whispers how he feels against the smooth skin, so quietly that he doesn't think Sam can hear, hopes that he doesn't.  
  
  
Sam's hand slides into his hair, and he surges up. "Fuck," he says, and Dean understands instantly. Sam's hearing is unquestionably the better possibly through smaller exposure to Metallica, and hops upright, gives Sam a hand knowing how the ache must be setting in, and then in twenty seconds flat, they're back in the car, squirming into boxers and pulling on t-shirts. By the time Sam's got his pants on, a tractor is cruising by and the driver waves at them.

  
Sam waves back, then turns to Dean and smiles. "Point to me," he says, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. Then he hops out gingerly of the car, and comes back with two beers and a water, twists the cap off a beer and takes a swig, tilting his neck back like he knows Dean is watching every movement. "There are certain upsides to not driving," he says smugly, half the beer gone in one gulp, and Dean doesn't know whether he wants to strangle him or kiss him. Settles for gunning the car and continuing the journey, accepting the water that Sam offers him.  
  
  
"Bitch," he grumbles, and hears Sam's grin rather than sees it.  
  
  
"I heard you, you know," Sam replies, and Dean's off-kilter and takes a second to understand what the fuck Sam means. His blood rushes to his ears and he stares stubbornly through the windshield, embarrassed despite everything else they've done. It's not often they let this be anything more than really fucking dirty sex. Then Sam's hand is there, sliding round his neck, comfort in a Sam shaped package. "Tonight," he says carefully, like he's gauging Dean's reaction. "I'm going to fuck you long enough that you understand exactly what I feel in return."  
  
  
The promise hangs there in the air, and Dean takes his eyes off the road to look at Sam, stubborn and resolute as he stares at Dean, says out loud (even if the actual words are a promise of action), what they feel. Always so fucking brave he thinks, and when he kisses him, hands holding the car steady, it's a yes. Always will be.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated.


End file.
